I Confess (4 page)

^TNfow that we have talked about it, I would advise the examination, which should give you certainty. So that you don't carry all sorts of dire possibilities around with you in your subconscious."

"My wife, you said, asked for the examination?'*

"Yes. She is very worried."

"How long does it take?"

"You'll have to stay with us three or four days."

"Does it hurt? I'm a coward."

"It doesn't hurt, Mr. Chandler. It is a complicated examination but you will feel no pain. We want to take an encephalogram."

I had heard the word somewhere. I couldn't connect anything good with it.

"Encephalogram?"

"An electro-encephalogram," he said soothingly, stressing the first syllables.

"What's the difference?"

"Years ago an encephalogram was made by blowing air into the patient's brain and drawing certain conclusions from that."

"Horrible!"

"I must admit it was a very unpleasant and by no means always safe procedure. On the other hand, with an electro-encephalogram, the examination is innocuous and no danger to the patient at all."

"You're a good psychologist."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because you want to calm my fears of the second method by denigrating the first."

He smiled and replied that he was not exaggerating. The new method was painless and purely routine. Then he asked me if I was agreed to the examination.

I said, "Of course." What else could I say? If I didn't get a clear opinion now from an expert in the field, it would be an end to my peace of mind.

"Very good," he said, and rose. "Then I'll inform your wife of your decision and I'll come to see you this after-

noon with Professor Vogt." He nodded and left the room. Ten minutes later the pretty nurse brought in the huge luncheon I had ordered. I ate very little of it. My appetite was gone. I rang and let the nurse take away the tray. Then I called Clayton at the office.

"Hello, hello, hello!" he cried jovially.

"Morning, Joe," I said.

Clayton couldn't speak a word of German. The only thing he had learned were the various forms of greeting. He was a fat, rosy-cheeked businessman who had had something to do with the steel industry during the war in the course of which he had won the confidence of several corporations that had profited hugely in the early forties. At war's end he had formed an independent film company in Hollywood and was one of the first to have the idea of working in Europe where you could shoot a film for a fraction of what it cost in the States. His old wartime business friends provided the money. Clayton was smart but didn't possess an iota of artistic comprehension; the nicest thing about him was that he never pretended to. His naivety however also had its disadvantages when, in artistic matters, he always adopted the opinion of the person he had spoken to last. This sometimes made things difficult for him.

"I'm terribly sorry to be causing you all this trouble," I said, but he interrupted me at once. "Shut up, Jimmy! What are you talking about? No trouble. No trouble at all. Everything's going fine. You did your job and did it beautifully. Now you stay put in your little bed and flirt with the nurses, hahaha!"

"It'll only take a few days."

"I don't care how long it takes—just don't let anything worry you. I'm coming to see you this afternoon, and I bring good news. Taschenstadt has read your first draft and is crazy about it."

"Good," I said. Taschenstadt was the president of the German company that was going to distribute the film.

"A cable came today. From the USA," Clayton went

on. *'The money's on its way."

"Congratulations."

"Thanks. You see, Jimmy, things keep cracking even without you. Do you need anything? Can I do anything for you?"

"Not a thing."

"I'll bring a bottle of Scotch."

"Okay."

"And as I said, take it easy. You have it coming to you, old boy."

I said goodbye and hung up. Clayton had sounded so damn cheerful was all I could think. One almost got the impression he was dehghted to have me in the hospital. Strange. Very strange. But then I shrugged. What did I want anyway? Would I have preferred it if he'd been furious?

The sun was shining directly on my bed. I felt warm^ comfortable and sleepy. Somewhere a radio was playing softly. A woman's dark voice was singing: "I'm gonna take a sentimental journey...." I knew the song.

The telephone rang. I answered. "Call for you, Mr. Chandler," said a woman's voice.

"Thank you." A crackling in the line. "Hello?"

"HeUo," said a voice. It was Yolanda. I was lying on my back, holding the receiver to my ear. I didn't answer.

"Jimmy? Are you t|jere?"

"Yes."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"Are you feeling better?"

"Yes."

"I was scared to death, Jimmy."

I said nothing.

"It was my fault. You got all excited. It was horrid, what I said. I'm sorry, Jimmy. Can you forgive me?"

". .. sentimental journey home," sang the woman's voice.

"Jimmy, do you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

". . . seven, that's the time we leave, at seven...."

"Yes."

"You forgive me?"

"Of course."

". ... counting every mile of railroad track.. . .*'

"I only wanted to make you mad. There isn't a word of truth in what I said. I swear there isn't."

". . . that takes me back, that takes me back... .**

"It's all right, Yolanda."

"It's not all right. I can tell by your voice."

". . . never tliought, my heart could be so yearning... •"

"It doesn't make any difference, Yolanda."

"Jimmy!"

"I may have a tumor.**

"Jimmy!"

"In my head. A growth. I don't know yet."

". . . why did I decide to roam. . . ."

"My God! Oh my God! That's terrible! Who said so? How do you know? Will they operate?" . "Nobody has said so. I don't know anything yet."

". .. gonna take a sentimental journey.. .."

"Jimmy, Jimmy, let me come to you. Now. Right away, m get a taxi."

"No you won't."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want it."

"Because your wife is coming?"

"Oh for God's sake, Yolanda "

". . . sentimental journey home. . . ."

"But I have to come. I have to see you. I love you."

"Goodbye," I said, and hung up.

Outside the woman's voice sang the song to the end. Then a loudspeaker announced: "On the last tone of the time signal it will be three o'clock."

I lay flat on my back and stared up at the white ceiling. There was a knock on the door. I said, "Come in."

It was Margaret.

She was wearing an English suit of a shiny black material, a white silk blouse and a little round black hat with a veil. She'd put on some rouge and looked tired. I sat up in bed and she kissed me fleetingly. "Hello, stranger," she said. Then she looked at me and smiled.

I knew that smile, knew it from innumerable occasions, all of them having one thing in common—something was going on that Margaret didn't want to face. When Margaret didn't want to face anything, it was nonexistent. Her smile did away with it as if it had never happened. It was a smile of cool superiority, a forgiving smile, a smile of sympathy and understanding. There was something regal about it, and it was particularly effective in profile. I knew this smile from first nights, from interviews with critics, from alcoholic nights and marital quarrels. I knew it well.

"I've spoken to the doctors," said Margaret. "You're getting the best possible care, and I know it will be a load off both our minds to know you're all right. Don't you agree, Roy?" She always called me Roy. It was the second syllable of my middle name. I lay back and looked at her. She talked fast.

"You know, the Baxters made me nervous." The Baxters were her friends in Chiemsee. "It was Ted who thought of calling the hospitals when you didn't come to pick me up. My God, Roy, you can't imagine what I felt when they told me where you were. I thought I was going to pass out. Ted was sweet. He drove me into the city, the whole way, a hundred miles, bless him. And we talked about your symptoms. He told me what they could mean. He had an uncle—that's how it started with him. In the end they had to operate and he was blind in one eye. Oh . . . I'm sorry, Roy. That was stupid of me, but you know how I meant it, don't you? It's only because he got me all nervous, and because both of us want to know for sure, don't we?"

She looked at me pleadingly. Her smile was free of guile and full of compassion.

"Margaret," I said, "you know, don't you, where they found me?"

"Of course I know, Roy." She fished magazines and newspapers out of her voluminous handbag. "I've brought you something to read. The New Yorker. There are some terribly funny cartoons this time."

"127 Romanstrasse," I said. "You know who lives there?"

"Of course I do, darling." She smiled. "And I've brought your mail. The Ezzards are off to Miami again. It's beyond me how they can do it." She was still digging around in her bag. Now she laid a few envelopes on the bed. "Robby's with Warners now, working for Siodmak. Not bad, is it?"

"Margaret . . ."

"And here are a few reviews of your last film. Some of them are great. I only brought the good ones. I threw the others away. They were stupid."

"Yolanda," I said. "Yolanda Caspari. My secretary. I spent the weekend with her."

"Yes, yes, Roy. I know." She took off her hat and laid it on the table. Her hair was black, parted in the middle and smooth as glass. She crossed her legs. She had long, goodlooking legs. She was wearing light nylons. "I take it the heliotrope is from her."

"Yes."

She smelled them.

"They don't smeU," I said.

"But they're pretty."

"Yolanda and I are having an affair."

She stroked my cheek with her cool, beautifully groomed hand. I wasn't shaved. Her hand smelled of Elizabeth Arden Orange Skin Cream.

"Yes, Roy. I know. Do we have to talk about it?"

"I'd like to."

"It's very sweet of you."

'Whaf s sweet of me?"

"To want to apologize."

"I don't want to apologize. I want to talk about it."

She smiled. "But I don't. Why should we? I've known all about it."

"So..."

"Yes."

"And?"

"I also knew you'd handle the situation as tactfully as possible. So that nobody would notice. So that I wouldn't be hurt. As you always have done. I understand perfectly that you're not happy about having put me in such a position. . . ."

"In what sort of a po . . . po . . . po . . ." I began, and bit my lip in fury and shame. There it was again.

"What's the matter, Roy?" She looked startled.

"The doctor calls it literal paraphasia," I explained. "He says it will pass." I drew a deep breath. "What were you saying?"

"Of course people are going to talk."

"I'm sorry about that."

"I know you are, Roy. But I'm not reproaching you. It wasn't your fault that you had to pass out just in the yard where that little whore lives. It was jorce majeure.''^

"That's right."

"You didn't do it on purpose. You didn't intend to hurt me. We won't talk about it any more."

"Oh yes we will!"

"Well, I won't, darling." Her smile broadened. "Are you eoing to end the affair?"

"f don't know."

"Of course. You've got to give it more thought. Take your time. Right now all you have to do is rest. Professor Vogt said that was the most important thing. Don't let anything worry you. It would be bad for the examination. And for your work. I wish we could eo to the Riviera for a while, when you're through here. What do you think?"

"I hate the Riviera."

"Then go somewhere alone. Fve promised the Baxters to fly to Paris with them. They've rented a darling house in Saint Cloud. I've seen the pictures."

"Margaret, I want to divorce you."

"Darling, that's something you've often wanted.'*

^That's true."

She looked at her watch. "Heavens, it's three thirty!**

"So?"

"I'll have to take a taxi. Ted hates to be kept waiting.**

"You have a date with him?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"In the bar of the Vier Jahreszeiten. Vera's going to be there too." Vera was Baxter's wife. "They'll want to know how you are. May they come to see you?"

"No."

"All right, m come again tomorrow. And III call tonight. Oh ... I almost forgot." She dug around in her bag again and produced a picture, in a frame. Margaret, in a white bathing suit, on the beach in Los Angeles. She stood it up in front of the gladiolas. "There?"

"Whatever for?"

"It looks better." She leaned over me and kissed me on the mouth. She smelled fresh and clean. Of Pepsodent, Chanel #5 and Palmolive soap. "So . . . bye-bye. And do look at the New Yorker, The issue's really funny."

"Goodbye, Margaret," I said.

She walked to the door. Her tight-fitting suit showed oflf her perfectly proportioned figure. At the door there was a mirror. She stopped in front of it to adjust her hat. As she did so she looked at me in the mirror and smiled.

"I'll never give you a divorce," she said. "But you know that, darling, don't you?'*

"Yes. I know."

"Fine." She turned around. "So everything's okay,** she said, threw me a hand kiss and walked out. The fresh clean smell of her body remained. I crossed my arms behind my head and closed my eyes. I felt tired and a little

confused. Probably the aftereflfects of the sleeping pill they had given me. I tried to sleep, but I couldn't. After a while I stopped trying and picked up the clippings Margaret had brought me. They were out-of-town reviews that gave a brief synopsis of the film and a few trite words of praise, the sort of praise that gives no satisfaction because it is couched in the conventional phraseology that clearly shows the critic had no idea what he was talking about.

I picked up the New Yorker, It really was a good issue; the cartoons were great. I looked at them all, among them a Charles Addams—two members of his horror family were beheading a doll with the help of a toy guillotine. It was hilarious.